


guests

by bleakmidwinter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Kissing, Living Together, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Sickfic, Will has a high fever, all that good stuff, but a part of me likes to think they're this fluffy sometimes, leave me alone i'm still coping, on the lamb, sleeping on shoulders, too fluffy to truly be in character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25854748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Will gets sick and Hannibal spends more time with the townsfolk.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 181





	guests

**Author's Note:**

> i had no fucking reason to write this!

Will blames himself for getting sick.

It comes unexpected and at the same time, entirely unsurprising. But, they have been healing for weeks. If a cold were to effect either one of them, it would have made sense to happen right as they emerged from the cold sea. Not when their stitches are supposed to come out and Will had just been feeling something resembling healthy. 

Of course Hannibal doesn’t get sick. He’s the type of person to get decapitated and somehow still find a way to saunter around his kitchen, go about his day.

Will wakes up one morning feeling just as badly as he had the day they’d crashed into this cabin, all groans and bone-wracking physical misery. He can barely get out of bed, and when he does, he uses up a whole box of tissues in the bathroom and still feels congested. His head aches, he has broken out into a cold sweat, and every part of him feels clammy and bruised. There is a dizziness that comes with each shuttering step until he feels arms holding him upright in the kitchen, dragging him back to the bed.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he grumbles, trying in his weakened state to break out of Hannibal’s grip, but the man is a bulldozer. He tucks Will back into bed, and feels his forehead.

“I fear you’ve had a relapse of your fever.” Will doesn’t register Hannibal’s words, but knows better than to fight his position again. He remains put. 

Hannibal flurries away as if he’d never been there to begin with. 

The sheets stick to his skin and he can’t lay on either of his sides without nausea making itself known. “Hannibal,” he mumbles into his pillow, calling out to him for a reason unknown to himself, forgetting Hannibal left the room. 

He’s never been this ill. Not since the encephalitis, and even then this is entirely different. This is a cold, but morphed into something with power equivalent to a witch’s curse. With a white-knuckle grip, he paws at his pillow, attempting to ground himself and to ignore the dizzying pain in his head. 

Hannibal returns shortly with a bowl of steaming soup. It is chicken noodle, looking and smelling suspiciously like Cambell’s. 

“Is this...from a can?” Will croaks. He eagerly takes the soup from Hannibal’s hands, and Hannibal scrambles to move Will’s hands from ceramic sides to the fabric potholder underneath the bowl. Will hadn’t even noticed his hands were burning. 

“If you can forgive my lack of resources.” Hannibal’s voice is tinted with worry. Will knows this is nothing more than a very shitty resurgence of his fever through the form of a nasty cold, and he wants to express that he’ll be okay without sounding foolish.

Instead he says, “The cheaper it is, the better it tastes.”

“I’m afraid I cannot agree with that sentiment.”

“Clearly you’ve never had ninety nine cent ramen.”

Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed, watching Will scarf down the chicken noodle soup like a starving man. It’s a struggle to swallow, his throat burning as if the intrusion were saltwater. But, it makes his stomach feel warm, and the nausea begins to subside. 

“I want you to rest in bed for a few days, no getting up to wander around,” Hannibal orders, taking the bowl when Will is finished.

“What if I’m hungry?” Will asks, voice perhaps edging on the side of delirious. He doesn’t consider Hannibal feeding him, taking care of him at all. Even after the chicken soup. 

“I am going to cater to you, Will,” Hannibal states. As if it is obvious.

“Can I piss by myself?” He cracks.

Hannibal’s eyes gleam in amusement. “I suppose I can allow it.” 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Will turns on his right side, the warmth of the soup making him feel sleepy again. He feels as if he could have another eight hours of sleep, easy. 

He does just that, not exactly meaning to. 

When he wakes, the room feels different, and it takes his groggy ill-brain nearly two minutes to realize it is because the television from the living room has been moved in here. He whips around too fast to check the rest of his surroundings for any remaining changes while he was out, and his headache returns full force.

Hannibal emerges into the room when he hears Will’s groan.

“Are you alright, Will?” It is the voice of a man who Will would bet money was waiting right on the other side of the door. It’s actually charming. 

“You didn’t have to move this in here, your wound might have reopened,” Will says and gestures to the television. Hannibal seems tranquil, circling around the bed to sit on the vacant side. Will watches him with humor as he settles himself in a poised manner. 

“Entertainment comes in various forms. I did not want your options to be limited,” Hannibal explains, handing Will a remote. 

Will runs a thumb over the buttons. He can’t remember the last time he watched TV. 

“I can read books you know. You’re not the only one.”

“I know,” He assures. “However, the occupants of this cabin have a very limited selection of novels. A selection which I don’t think you’d be up for in your current state.”

“How to Live With Your Cannibal for Dummies?” 

“Pornographic novels, actually.” Hannibal says, growing more and more amused when Will’s face begins to turn a different color. 

“So it’s that kind of summerhouse.” 

“It is that kind of summerhouse.” Will wants to wipe the amusement off Hannibal’s face. Instead, he tears his sweat-drenched pillow out from under himself and swats him with it.

Hannibal places the pillow back under Will, unperturbed. “I will watch something with you,” he says and props himself up more comfortably against the bed frame. His shoulder brushes Will’s in the abnormally small queen size bed.

“You’re kidding.”

“Anything you choose.”

“What planet am I on?” Will snarks, but he subconsciously rolls his thumb over the power button. _Anything_ is a dangerous privilege. Will attempts to picture a younger Hannibal settling down on his couch to watch a television show, no it’s impossible, a film then. The shocking realization that he can’t guess Hannibal’s taste in films even with all his intimate knowledge of the man collapses on him like rubble. 

He probably went to obscure film festivals or back-lot movie showings of independent art house cinema. It makes him want to laugh. 

“Christ,” he groans, stretching his back out. “Okay, but you’re not allowed to complain or leave halfway through the film. My dad used to do that and it pissed me off.”

“Quite rude of him. I’m sure I will find merit in your taste, even if I do not personally share in your appraisal.” 

Hannibal appears to notice him trembling while searching for a film, so he vanishes for several minutes, returning with a thick quilt that he places over Will’s lap. In a flash of complex emotions, something between sheepish and sympathetic, he lifts the side of the quilt for Hannibal to share in it if he so pleases.

The shock on Hannibal’s face is accompanied with one of his rare genuine smiles. “I appreciate the gesture, Will, however I find myself to be a tad overheated.”

Will drops the quilt and tries not to look let down as he chews at the inside of his cheek. He picks up the remote, having chosen a film in Hannibal’s absence. 

“You ever seen The Talented Mr. Ripley?” 

The answer he expects is no, and the answer he gets is a quiet “No.” 

Will can’t imagine Hannibal has seen any films, let alone a more mainstream one starring Matt Damon, and hell, this film isn’t even _truly_ mainstream. He thinks Hannibal might enjoy it for the subject matter though, and the fact that it’s all shot on location in Italy. He’d seen it with his dad when he was young, and all he remembers is that there’s a good mystery.

Hannibal presses play for them, apparently accepting of the choice. 

During the opening credits, Will hysterically wonders how the hell they ended up in this domestic situation. They’re on the run, and they’re watching a movie. They’re grown men, killers, and Hannibal is treating him like a sick puppy. He’s one of those things, he supposes. 

Will is able to forget the ache in his throat, and the heavy weight in his chest halfway throughout the film. Hannibal makes more comments than Will would have assumed he’d make, and it’s almost comforting. He’s able to shut his brain off and toss quips back and forth. There is a sharp feeling in his chest that has nothing to do with his illness when he looks to his left and sees Hannibal watching the movie with wide eyes and a relaxed face. He looks years younger than he did in the institution, behind a glass wall. Seeming miles away. He doesn’t seem miles away now. 

While Will is able to forget his ill state of being, it doesn’t mean his body forgets. A wave of exhaustion takes hold of him before he can truly realize it, and the next thing he knows the film is over and his cheek is pressing hard into Hannibal’s shoulder. He wakes with a grunt, and feels ridiculously heavy. 

Painstakingly, he peels himself away from Hannibal. 

His back hurts and his throat is far too dry again. 

“You seemed to need the rest.” Hannibal’s voice startles him like the caw of a crow in his ear. “I apologize for finishing the film on my own.”

Will waves a hand in disregard. “I’ve seen it already. What happened at the end?”

Hannibal blinks once. “He killed his lover.” 

“How close to home,” Will drawls with his usual dose of sarcasm, and realizes in prompt and mortifying hindsight that he’d implied that he and Hannibal are lovers. Hannibal for once, takes pity on him and doesn’t drag his mishap out into the open. 

The TV screen is black, and Will asks, “When did the movie end?” 

For a moment, Hannibal is silent while formulating a response.

“Two hours ago.” 

“Oh.” 

Hannibal let him snooze on his shoulder for nearly two and a half hours. He had said nothing and made no move to jostle or rouse him. Why does that make Will feel pleased and wanted? His own response frightens him and he turns away. 

“Do you mind if I get some more rest?” 

“Shall I wake you for dinner?” Hannibal shifts easily into the change of topic, though there is a tint of sorrow in his voice and Will feels a sliver of regret. 

“No, uh, I’ll wait til tomorrow to eat something.” 

Will expects him to respond with something like, _I needn’t tell you that this is an unhealthy choice you are making_ , maybe he even wants him to. But, Hannibal exits the room with nothing more than a nod and a hand brushing his shoulder.

This simple moment morphs into one of Will’s biggest misgivings. 

Hannibal doesn’t sit down for another movie. He doesn’t even linger when he delivers food. Will thinks at first he was appalled by the film choice, but he tries to think in a more sophisticated and adult mindset and realizes that he’d probably given Hannibal the wrong idea. Hannibal doesn’t want to bother him when he thinks Will is unaccepting of his company. Unaccepting of his feelings. 

Hadn’t Hannibal understood when he’d dragged them into the sea? Dragged them still to dry land, breathing his own remaining life into Hannibal’s to revive him.

There’s no way he can fix it in this state. He can barely shower and go to the bathroom without aches and pains urging him back into bed.

He vows to make Hannibal understand that he is very much wanted by him, the second he’s better. He misses the company, the unrelenting affection. 

Everything is going according to his plans until the day he actually begins to feel better, when he wakes up one morning feeling like someone other than himself. When he is able to walk into the living room, hoping to surprise Hannibal with the progress in his recovery. Instead, he finds two strangers lounging on the couch.

Before he can figure out if he’s more outraged than concerned, Hannibal waltzes in from the kitchen holding a tray of teacups, a cup of sugar cubes, and a teapot.

“Lewis.” Hannibal stops in his tracks, marveling at his appearance. “You look well.”

“You must be Lewis. Arthur’s told us all about you,” The ginger woman says in a light voice. She resembles Freddie Lounds, with a little more girth and a little less chutzpah. 

For a moment, Will thinks he’s still sick and in a very realistic dream with smells and touch and quasi-replicas of people he’s known before, but he can’t really say the balding man beside the ginger woman looks like anyone he’s ever seen before. 

“Um, yeah.” Will tries to remember his full pseudonym. He hadn’t been expecting to use it this soon. He hadn’t been expecting Hannibal to bring anyone into their home at all in full honesty. “Good to meet you.”

It isn’t anything resembling _good_. 

He sits down with their guests and finds their company to be not as abrasive as he’d first anticipated. However, he is able to keep calm by counting the seconds until they are gone, watching Hannibal carefully as their guests sip at their tea and enjoy him as their generous host. When the couple begins to wrap up the conversation with the excuse that they do not want to miss this morning’s church service, Will forces himself to shake their hands. The darker part of himself hopes they catch his cold for he is still unable to stomach fake pleasantries and idle conversation even by kind people. 

“What’s the ploy?” Will asks, waiting until a minute after the door is shut. 

“I have no clue what you mean,” Hannibal says innocently. He disappears into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a buttered muffin on a small plate. He hands Will the food, and he tries not to eat it too graciously despite the exquisite taste.

He is supposed to be angry about this situation, isn’t he?

Will doesn’t feel angry, but he doesn’t understand why Hannibal would invite anyone into their home. After everything, while everything is still going on.

“What happened to laying low?” He says around a mouthful of muffin.

Hannibal chuckles, sipping at his tea. “We never mentioned laying low, Will.” 

Will clicks his tongue. 

“It was implied when we survived falling off a cliff and started to run from the authorities. It was implied when we killed that couple which recognized us at the border and kept running. Who are they?” 

“Friends,” Hannibal responds earnestly. “While I respect your concerns, it would be detrimental to lay so low that Jack would be suspicious. If we blend into the crowd, so to speak, it will be better for us in the long run.”

Will huffs grumpily at the inarguable logic. 

“Friends,” he bites out. “When did you have time to make friends?” _Is my company not enough for you_? – a question left unsaid in the air between them. 

"I went into town for food, and met them at a church fair. They make soup every first Sunday of the month for the religious folk. They occasionally go to dinner parties held by the mayor, but they’re not so aristocratic that it would draw any unwanted attention towards us.” 

“Okay,” Will concedes. “I wish you’d told me.” 

“I did not want to disturb you whilst you were ill,” Hannibal moves to the couch Will is sitting on. With a napkin, he wipes a crumb away from his lips. Will freezes, startled by the intimacy, but forces himself to not make a movement. He wants to start accepting these moments, to embrace them fully so Hannibal doesn’t get the wrong idea.

He’s rewarded with a hand on his scarred cheek and a thumb rubbing under his eyes as Hannibal watches him admiringly. 

“Your reaction to seeing them in the living room was priceless.” Hannibal grins wolfishly at Will’s offense. “I will let you know the next time they are visiting.”

The next time. 

Will bites the inside of his cheek. “So, that’s where you were. All these days I was alone in my room. Wondering why you were gone for so long.” He doesn’t mean to come across as insolent and co-dependent, but when the words slip from his mouth, he can’t help but realize he does.

“I wasn’t aware you missed my absence.”

“Of course I–” Will huffs, indignant. “You were there and then you weren’t. I thought I’d said something.” 

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle at the corners, cheeks rising gently. “You could never do anything that would drive me away. I would have thought you knew that.” 

“I would have thought you’d know it’s been too long since I’ve had time with you being by my side.” Will darkens. “I don’t want to share that with anyone else.”

“What an insidious boy you are,” Hannibal muses, but his smile remains. 

“Would it be insidious of me to ask you not to see them for a while?”

“Perhaps. Though, I’ve never minded you insidious.”

Will’s breath catches when Hannibal puts a hand on his knee. Those firm, calloused fingers that he had always regarded silently when he’d brush them across Will’s hands. Tending his wounds, taking a gun from his hold. So powerful in their docility. 

“Are you asking me to be by your side?”

“I’m asking you not to leave it,” Will manages. “I’m not very good with this. These feelings aren’t new but the physical reality of them is. I haven’t had my chance to indulge myself with your presence.” He makes a show of looking down at Hannibal’s lips and then fluttering his gaze wantonly back up to Hannibal’s eyes. “I deserve that don’t I?” 

This doesn’t spur Hannibal on like he’d hoped. Hannibal even retracts the hand that had been resting comfortably on Will’s knee. He seems to know what game Will is playing, and is being stubbornly evasive just for the sake of his own amusement. 

“What are these feelings, Will?” He asks like the psychiatrist he is. 

“You’re not going to make me say it.” 

Hannibal casually leans back against the couch, his neck stretching out so Will has to glance down at where his collarbone peaks out from his sweater. 

“I cannot read minds,” he says with a shrug in his voice. 

Will rolls his eyes. “You’ve always acted like you could.” 

“The illusion of omniscience.” Will has to chuckle at that. He leans closer and rests against the back of the cushions, mirroring Hannibal’s fond stare. Hannibal’s scent is overpowering, musky and dark, like some sort of hypnotic underground root you’d have to tear from the soil with your bare hands. His hair has fallen over his eyes, he looks tired. 

“Would you kiss me?” Will asks suddenly.

Hannibal barely misses a beat, but he does. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, except Will. “Is this a hypothetical question?”

“If I allowed you to. If I asked you. If you wanted to. Would you?” Is all Will responds with. He taps his fingers against his thigh, watching Hannibal’s expression carefully. 

“If you allowed me to, if you asked me to, and if I wanted to, I would.” Hannibal smiles wider and Will can see an instance of pointed teeth. “I can tell you that I do want to.” 

“What if I’m asking you now?”

“What if,” Hannibal muses and Will rolls his eyes. 

“ _Hannibal_.” 

Hannibal leans in then and kisses Will gently, lips searching his with a suddenness that shocks Will into stillness. A jumble of thoughts fly into his head: _Hannibal tastes good, I’ve never kissed a man, Hannibal is a good kisser, How the hell do I kiss back?_

Will timidly presses his lips against Hannibal’s, gripping at the fabric of his sweater to signal to him that this is what he wants, even if he’s too stunned to return the favor with anything more than trembling lips and shaking hands. 

Hannibal leans back after a few moments looking like he’s won the lottery. The smug look of accomplishment in his eyes should piss Will off, but to his own detriment, he finds it utterly charming. He doesn’t know what to say. 

There is a sudden, horrible churning in his stomach. He jumps up and scrambles to the kitchen, vomiting forcibly in the trash bin. He feels like his soul has left his body. 

He feels embarrassment instantly when a hand appears on his back, rubbing and soothing. The hand rubs up to the nape of his neck. 

“It’s...it’s not you,” He croaks out though his throat is burning. 

“You didn’t give me a chance to joke about a sexuality crisis,” Hannibal says softly, but he leaves his side to get him a glass of water, fluttering around the kitchen worriedly. “Sickness is still very much intact, then?”

“I’m afraid so.” 

“Another movie night, then,” Hannibal says. 

Will nearly laughs before thinking better of his esophagus. He swashes some water around in his mouth and spits in the bin, chugging the rest of it. “I feel disgusting. I’d rather you not be around me.”

“Will, I kissed you even with a one hundred and two degree fever. You know that doesn’t matter to me.” Hannibal presses a cool hand to his forehead and makes a tsk sound. 

“Is it still that high?” Will is starting to feel faint. Hannibal kisses him again, on the forehead this time, with hands cupping his face. The grip on his cheeks keeps him from collapsing.

“Yes,” he replies when he pulls back.

Before Hannibal can drag him anywhere, Will grabs his arm and forces himself to look in his eyes. “Hey, I wanted that kiss, you know. It isn’t the fever.”

He’d like to kiss him again, but he probably tastes like a regurgitated muffin. Not the sexiest thing to think about after kissing quite probably the love of his life. 

“I know.” Hannibal kisses his knuckles chastely. “I know.”   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> my hannibal juice is draining so i dont know if i'll be able to shoot out another fic anytime soon but who knows some inspiration might come. this was supposed to be longer and have an actual point, but i had absolutely no motivation for this one so sorry if it comes across half-hearted. see y'all around <3
> 
> (every single one of my hannibal fics is a post-s3 the streak will never be broken babeyyy!)


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